


Rip it

by tstate_wranglerr



Category: NCIS
Genre: M/M, NCIS Major Case Response Team (MCRT)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24562699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tstate_wranglerr/pseuds/tstate_wranglerr
Summary: Tony always made of Ziva for falling in love with a dead man walking. That is, until he fell for his own.
Relationships: Anthony DiNozzo/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i lowkey kinda started writing this yesterday and I've edited none of it so if it sucks that's my bad. pretty proud of i though. originally written on Wattpad. enjoy

His ripcord didn't pull.

His ripcord wouldn't pull.

He yanked on it, bit it with his teeth, even broke a finger with how hard he was pulling, but it wouldn't pull.

"Rip it, Rowe!" Somebody yelled from above it.

"Rowe, rip it!" Somebody else screamed from his side.

He yanked it again, but the only thing that pulled was his finger bone through his skin. He couldn't feel it, he was too amped up on adrenaline. The ground got closer and closer and he got further and further from his company.

"Rip it!" Another yell.

He wiped blood onto his face, sweat entering the wound. He grabbed the cord and pulled it as hard as he could. He tried his reserve.

Nothing.

He was heading for the trees now. Looking behind him, he could see the rest of his company many yards way.

He saw, in a clearing in the woods, an NCIS van. He internally laughed. At least it would be a quick trip to this crime scene.

He yanked his cord again, and suddenly, they both popped open.

And that's when his luck got worse.

The parachutes twisted together, making both of them almost useless. He was headed straight for the crime scene. He wasn't sure if they could see him, but he assumed.

He desperately tried to untwist himself, his mind completely forgetting which way he was supposed to twist.

He cuts his main away and struggles to untwist his reserve.

He glances at the ground - almost there.

His main flies off, and he untwists his reserve - but it's too late.

The second his reserve is untwisted, he looks back and sees the ground. Well, technically he sees a tree.

It's a large oak, definitely not made for Marines to land in.

It's maybe a 60-foot drop, which compared with what Rowe just went through is nothing, but it's still quite large.

He remains silent as his chute slices through the branches. He's not entirely sure how, but he's never been one to scream. Instead, he bites his lip harshly, drawing blood.

He's whipped by branches and leaves as he cuts through the mighty oak. He sees the ground getting closer and closer, but the only thought in his mind is 'shit, this is gonna hurt'.

He hits the ground roughly, a loud thud somehow echoing through the hard dirt. He hits the ground and immediately rolls - the way he was taught.

As soon as he rolls over he sits up, shoves his gear off, and heads for the nearest tree. His helmet rests against the tree as he spews his guts. He wipes his mouth and then throws up again.

The only sounds he can hear is his own heavy breathing, the sound of his vomiting, his heartbeat loudly in his ears, and the blood circling his body.

A hand touches his back, and he lurches forward again. He throws up, but he's not sure how. He didn't even eat that much at breakfast. Or last night. Or the day before. Or the day before.

"Rip it, Rowe!" and "Rowe, rip it!" Are the only other things circling his mind.

Looking to his side, he saw a younger man leaning down next to him. He felt the hand on his shoulder. He saw the guy's lips moving, but he couldn't hear him.

Although even in the state he was in, the man looked oddly familiar.

"I-I'm fine." He says a little too loudly, shrugging the hand off of him and standing up.

The guy's lips continue to move but a ringing in Rowe's ears prevents him from hearing the words he speaks.

"I'm good!" He yells loudly, grabbing the guy by the shoulders of his suit.

"I'm good!" But he's not. The light seeps through the trees and into his eyes, blinding him. But then, maybe it's not the sunlight.

His grip remains on the NCIS agent's suit as he falls into his chest.

The agent keeps him up, yelling for his boss's help. He gently lays him on the ground, trying not to do more damage than he already has.

He checks for breathing first - it's faint, but there. Of course, he has a pulse. Surprisingly weak for the amount of shit he just went through.

The other agents come running up, the medical examiners following behind them.

Gibbs immediately comes to the young Marines aid. Ducky and Palmer follow behind him, both falling to their knees when they see the young Marine.

"McGee, go find where the rest of them landed!" Although they've all heard him yell, never like this.

"What about me?" Ziva asks.

"Crime scene!"

The young Marines face is covered in blood and scratches. A large gash rests on his right cheekbone. His pointer finger is practically severed, the bone sticking out of the skin, and a large amount of blood coming out of it. His lip, nose, and cheeks are covered in blood too.

Despite the condition the Marine is in, Tony recognizes him. He knows him.

"We must get this young lad to a hospital," Ducky says, "There is not much I could do without proper medical screening."

Surprisingly, Gibbs steps up and away from the Marine, making the call to the closest military hospital. Luckily, it's only that far.

"Gibbs!" Ziva yells. Tony looks up at his boss. Gibbs gives him a nod before running towards his agent's voice, gun drawn.

"Is there an ID, Anthony?"

It takes Tony a moment to pull himself out of his thoughts. Once he's out of them, he completely forgets that he knows him, and his name, and everything else about him. He quickly pats the man down. There's nothing. Then, he pulls his shirt down and pulls out a pair of dog tags.

He quickly reads the information to the medical examiners.

"Rowe, D. R., AB neg," He reads, "Fuck I hate the layouts of these things."

He's seen the exact same tags, just less official, a thousand times - maybe more.

"So we have nothing?" Palmer asks, handing Ducky gauze.

"We have a last name," Tony says, "First and middle initials. A blood type. Oh yeah, and we have an injured Marine."

"Why didn't he pull his chute?" Palmer asks, not noticing the anger in Tony's voice.

"I don't know Palmer," He says angrily, "Why don't you ask him that?"

Palmer puts his hands up defensively.

"Our young Marine here," Ducky interjects, "Likely has suffered some internal damage. His helmet should protect his brain from any long-lasting effects. He should suffer many broken ribs, as well as a possible broken back."

"But he was walking?"

Ducky nods, "Yes, Anthony. If one were to fall out of a plane without opening your parachute, one would be full of adrenaline. It is entirely possible that his walking was the result."

"So why didn't he pull his chute earlier?" Palmer asks once again.

Tony stands up and walks over to the contraption. He picks it up and examines it, looking for the ripcord.

His heart drops when he sees it.

"He wasn't meant to open it," Tony says, showing the medical examiners the parachute, "Somebody wanted him killed."

Just then, Ziva ran towards them.

"Somebody stole our body."


	2. ICU

Tony hated the ICU. Everybody in it hated it, even people that weren't injured, like Tony.

He hated it because the only sound he could hear was the ventilator and the heart monitor. They were calming, in a sense. Steady and soft. But it meant that Rowe was injured bad enough to the point that he was in the ICU, bad enough that he was on a ventilator. Bad enough that nobody even knew when, or if, he was going to wake up.

Tony eventually couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand looking at his old friend. He looked the same, sure. His face, the freckles that covered it, his short curls. Yeah, that was all the same. But he was different. He looked different. He was hooked up to machines that Tony couldn't even pronounce the names of, and there were so many of them. My god, there were so many of them! Drips, a ventilator, a heart monitor - the only things that Tony could name. And there were more, so many more.

He trudged along to the vending machine, the pep in his step long since gone. As he pulled a few dollars out of his wallet, he hesitated on the playing card. It was dirty and many years old. Crease lines covered it and the colors had long since faded.

Rowe had given him it once upon a time. It was the king of spades. Apparently spades represented the military, and the king of spades was David - Tony's middle name. Written on the back were the lyrics to 'Don't Think Twice, It's Alright.' It wasn't the full song, just the last few lines.

Tony had given him a gift too. It was the original tickets to the first movie they had seen together, 'It Happened One Night' at a drive-in theatre, way back when. Written on the back, in the messy scribbling of a drunk 18-year-old - who had shitty handwriting in the first place - was a quote from the movie. 'I come from a long line of stubborn idiots'

Tony bought himself a bottle of orange juice, a snickers bar, and a bag of doritos. It may have been an odd combination to the passerby, but Tony didn't mind it. In fact, at a point, it was all he ate.

He sat by the door, his back to the large window that faced the nurse's station.

He ate. And it didn't taste good, but it tasted like home. It tasted like the past.

He thought about Rowe while he ate. About how much he would like this. Possibly the only person to.

Rowe was the quiet type. In a way, Rowe reminded Tony of Gibbs.

Of course, there were some big differences between the two. Gibbs was more of a father figure to Tony. He was to the entire team, really. But he was quiet and he enjoyed silence. He was quiet because in his eyes 'talk is cheap'. He was a 'functional mute' as Tony called him.

Rowe was different. He was quiet, yes, but for different reasons and in different ways. The things that he said were important, and when he talked, you listened. If you were doing something, you stopped and listened. He was raised quietly - born in a small farming town in Texas. His dad was never around, and his mom sent him outside when his voice got even slightly louder than a whisper. He learned that if he was quiet, if he didn't talk, he could stay inside. So he shut up. He learned to only talk when talked to, and to speak your mind only when it really mattered and only when others needed to hear it - which wasn't often. Even away from his parents he was quiet and closed off. When he took care of animals or did other farm work, you would rarely even hear a peep out of him. And he liked it that way. Being silent helped him work. It helped him focus.

'Silence is golden'

He always said that.

His silence only got worse when he met Tony. It was Remington Military Academy, a place you think would've made him loud. It did, but only when it mattered. When he had to yell, he yelled. And goddamn, did he yell loud. Any other time, he barely spoke.

He held a faded southern accent a rough, gravelly. Tony couldn't imagine what he sounded like as a kid. A high pitched voice with a thick southern accent - No, Tony didn't want to.

"Agent DiNozzo?"

The voice made Tony jump, and he instantly turned towards it. He relaxed and stood when he saw that it was just a doctor.

"I'm Dr. Ray Greene, I don't believe we've met." Tony shakes his head and the doctor's hand.

"I assume you have questions, so I'm here to answer any that you may have. If you ever have any more questions, feel free to talk to any member of his care team. We're here to help."

Tony nods, "How bad is it?"

The doctor brings out a slip of paper and hands it to Tony.

"I assumed the agency would ask that. I'll be honest with you, Mr. DiNozzo, it's not looking good. His legs took most of his fall. On his left leg, we have grade 3 ACL, MCL, and PCL tears. Along with that, much of his leg is completely shattered. His right leg suffered a grade 2 MCL and ACL tear, along with a grade 1 PCL tear. The ankle is broken on that one too. As for the upper body, he suffered multiple broken and fractured ribs, again mostly on that left side, and rib contusions, as well as a collapsed lung on his left side. Mr. Rowe also suffered a spinal cord contusion. His collarbone is broken and his shoulder was dislocated, though it no longer is. His right pointer finger was almost completely severed, he went into surgery for it this morning. He has a mild concussion but we haven't seen any signs of a brain injury. We'll continue to monitor him night and day."

It takes Tony a few minutes to digest that.

So some fuckup wanted Rowe killed? Why? Tony couldn't understand. Rowe was one of the nicest people that he had ever met. He was humble, sweet, intelligent. Everything. A hard worker. Tony couldn't understand.

Tony felt like a young child. He didn't know half the words the doctor said, he just knew that they were bad.

So, like a child, he asks a question, "Will he get better?"

The doctor sighs and Tony's stomach drops.

"We're doing the best we can, Mr. DiNozzo. We have a highly experienced group of people taking care of him."

And Tony, though he may not understand medical talk, understood that.

It wasn't likely.

"He's a fighter," The doctor sighs, "He was here five years ago. Injured in combat, comatose for seven days. He had his boots on the ground the same month. Ended up saving five Marines lives," The doctor lets out a short laugh, "MEPS cleared him, not me. I'm fairly certain that he bribed them."

The doctor sighs again and turns to Tony.

"He's not a Marine, Agent DiNozzo, he's a hero. Whether he bribes MEPS or not."


	3. Chapter 3

The bullpen is almost empty.

It's an odd sight for McGee and an even more odd feeling.

Usually at least Tony was here, but he was gone on protection duty for their living Marine.

Speaking of, McGee actually had to look at that.

It wasn't that he wasn't focused since they were gone, he just hadn't gotten to that yet. He was busy playi-

Okay, okay. So maybe he wasn't focused. But it wasn't his fault! Nobody was in the bullpen to watch over him. Nobody to tell him what to do. It was like leaving a third-grader alone with a big chocolate bar and a sheet of multiplication in front of them and expecting them to do the math instead

It just didn't happen.

McGee brought the file onto the large screen next to his desk and stood up so he could see it better.

"Let's take a good look at you." He mutters to himself as the picture pops onto the screen.

"Who are we looking at?" The female voice behind him scared him, making him almost drop the clicker in his hand.

"Abby!" He scolds, "Don't you have work to be doing?"

"McGee! I did my work! There were no fingerprints on the parachute, only Rowes! It was squeaky clean!"

McGee sighs, "Fine." He points to the very official photo on the screen.

Truthfully, McGee had always liked those photos. They were so... official? Of course, they had to be, but McGee just thought they were badass. The American flag on one side, the USMC flag on the other. Complete that with the Marine dress blues and cover.

Man, they were nice.

"This is Davidson Randall Rowe. Born 1975 in Six Sleep, Texas."

"Six Sleep?" Abby laughs, "Why's it called that?"

McGee shrugs, pulling up a map of the town.

It's a very small town, but not very small, you know? There aren't many houses, and they're spread few and far between. Most of the land is farmland. There are a few shops, a rodeo arena, a couple of large lakes in and around the town. But that's just what they can see from here, standing in an NCIS base in Washington, D.C.

"Rowe attended Six Sleep elementary, middle, and oh, only attended Six Sleep High School for a year."

"Well, where'd he go after that?"

"I'm looking, Abbs."

He types something on his computer and a different photo pops up. Instead of a small town in Texas, it's a military academy in Rhode Island.

"Remington?" McGee asks slowly, "Isn't that..."

He and Abby look at each other. They're both silent for a moment as they process the information and think about it.

"Do you think?" Abby asks, watching as a yearbook photo pops up.

It's a yearbook photo from Remington Military Academy. It's black and white, but it's still obvious who it is. Rowe.

He looks mostly the same as the military photo, just with a little more hair, a little more life in his eyes, and a little younger. His hair is very curly, but it's longer and falls slightly in his face. Freckles cover his nose and cheeks. He wears no smile on his face. He looks sad.

"It's possible," McGee said, "Rowe graduated in 1993, same year as..."

"Tony." Abby finishes.

McGee nods, pulling something else up. It's Tony's sophomore year photo. He looks incredibly young. After another photo, the football team pops up. In the front row, Tony. In the back, Rowe.

"They were on the football team together."

McGee pulls up another photo. It should be their senior year. Sure enough, both of them are still on the same football team. McGee pulls up their yearbook photos. They both look much older. Much more professional.

Tony has a toothy grin on his face. He's in uniform, the American flag behind. He looks so much different than now, McGee and Abby are speechless.

Rowe is mostly the same. His hair is curly, pushed to the side this time. Freckles still cover his face and he still doesn't have a smile.

They go through the digital yearbook, but they never find any proof that they ever knew each other, other than the fact they were both on the football team.

It made sense. Military school, military kid. It's no surprise that Rowe ended up going to the Marines. I mean, McGee and Abby could see that just based on how serious he always looked. There were only ever 3 photos that they found of him smiling, and each was the same.

Bull riding.

Rowe was a bull rider.

Again, made sense. A small-town Texan farm kid that was now a Marine. That love of adventure and danger had to come from somewhere.

McGee and Abby even found videos of him bull riding. Apparently it was the Texas Youth Bull Riding Championships, the TYBRC for short.

He had gone every year since he was 13, the minimum age to enter. But based on that, it seemed like he had been riding for many years prior.

The video was of bad quality, but it didn't matter. They stood and watched as Rowe popped onto the screen.

He was barely recognizable, donned in full riding gear complete with a cowboy hat. He definitely looked like a cowboy.

"My name is Davidson Randall Rowe."

The thick Texas accent caught both of the agents off guard. Again, it made sense, but still. It was heavy.

"I'm thirteen, from Six Sleep."

He was incredibly serious, never a smile coming out of his mouth. Even when he spoke, his lips remained closed. He seemed to talk out of the corner of his mouth too.

"You said you were here to win it," An adult voice said, "You have to beat a two time champion for that title. Do you think you can do that?"

He nods, "Yes sir."

He laughs, "I wish you luck, Davidson."

Time went on. People jumped and fell off of rampant bulls. Some people got injured, others very nearly escaped it. 

McGee and Abby watched with wide eyes, both of them having never really seen anything like that before. I mean, those were kids. Those were kids getting tossed around on those almost one-ton bulls. It was insane to them.

Then Rowe was on, riding that wild beast like he had done it every day since he was born. It wouldn't shock them if he had.

When he got off the bull, he pumped his fist once, but only a hint of a smile was present on his face.

When he won the state championship, stealing it from an 18-year-old, two-time champion, he pumped his fist once, the hint of a smile on his face.

McGee could only ask one question.

"What the hell is wrong with this kid?"


	4. Chapter 4

Two and a half days.

That's how long Rowe was in a coma.

It wasn't a long time, but to Tony, it felt like weeks, and to Rowe, it felt like days.

It was about 3 pm. Rowe had gotten out of multiple surgeries just a few hours before.

He woke suddenly, gasping for air. His hands flew wildly to the side of the bed, and then one to his head. He was panting and gasping for breath, grabbing at his throat.

The doctors and nurses rushed in, pushing Tony aside. He just had to watch as they restrained him and did their best to calm him down.

Rowe was confused and scared. He didn't know anybody in the room, he didn't know where he was, he didn't know what was happening. He was terrified. This wasn't a rodeo, and it definitely wasn't Six Sleep. His only thought was that he got hurt riding, but that didn't happen. They had nothing like this in Six Sleep, and he never, never, got hurt riding.

He kicked and thrashed, and doctors had to hold him down. He was terrified.

He couldn't talk, but Tony could hear a few short whimpers come out of his mouth. Again, Tony's heart broke.

His vision was blurred and his hearing was muffled. He couldn't breathe, he could barely see, and he could barely hear. He couldn't move his arms or legs and he felt like his world was crashing down around him.

And then, he was asleep.

It was a few hours later when he woke again. This time, his eyelids fluttered open gently. He was hopped up too many drugs and painkillers to count. In fact, he could barely feel anything. It felt like a really odd out of body experience.

"Mr. Rowe?" His head turned towards the voice and he saw the man from earlier. He knew he was still scared, but he couldn't get himself to panic.

"My name is Dr. Ray Greene, I'm taking care of you. Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me."

He tries to not aggressively but his movement is limited. Regardless, the doctor understands what he's trying to say.

"Do you know where you are?"

Rowe shakes his head, eyes scanning the room. It's so blindingly bright.

"You're at Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Can you lift your thumbs for me?"

Rowe lifts both of his thumbs and the doctor marks something down on the clipboard he's holding.

Wait, Rowe thinks, What the hell is Walter Reed Army Medical Center? I'm not in the Army. What the hell is going on?

"Bend your toes?" Rowe does as told.

He lifts his right arm and points to his throat. The doctor shakes his head and moves closer to Rowe.

"We can't take that out tonight, Mr. Rowe."

And maybe it's the panic of still not being able to breathe and being unable to talk, or maybe it's something else, but Rowe passes out again.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, and all is calm.

He knows because the lights are dimmed, there's nobody in his room, the nurse's station has a dim light shining over it, and he can see the moon through the window.

He likes the moon. He always has. His mom used to read him 'goodnight moon' when she was good. When she wasn't, sometimes he slept with the horses. Or the cows. They didn't mind him. They were as loud as he was. And when he went quite, they made up for it. He thought that maybe they were smarter than he seemed. He could trust them, and they would trust him. And then sometimes even, he would sleep with the dogs. And they would come up to the top of the barn and cover him with hay. And they would be the blankets he didn't have because they knew he was cold.

And he would lay there, and he wouldn't sleep. No, he would just look up at the moon. Wishing that he could go up there too. Just like Buzz.

When people died, they would go up to the moon. His dad would constantly tell him that he was stupid for believing that. That God sent them to heaven if they were good, and hell if they were bad. Not the moon. But then his ma would come swoop in and tell him that if he wanted them to go to the moon, then the went to the moon.

He believed his ma.

"Rowe?"

There it was, the last name again. Why did everybody call him Rowe? His name was Davidson, not Rowe.

"I'm Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, I work for NCIS."

Rowe gives him a confused look.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service. We're basically Navy detectives," Tony sighs, "You don't remember me, do you?"

Rowe shakes his head, gently biting the inside of his lips. He blinks twice and his eyebrows twitch.

Tony sighs heavily and leans forward in a chair.

"Do you think you can write?"

Rowe nods. Tony pulls out a pen and paper and hands it to Rowe. He looks down at it as best he can, grips his pencil as well as possible with two unusable fingers, and starts writing.

It's chicken scratch at best. Tony reads it a few times before he actually understands it.

'What happened?'

Tony sighs, "You really want to you?" Rowe nods.

"You're a Marine," He says, "Airborne. You got injured in a training exercise because your parachutes failed to open and you landed in the trees, onto us."

A low grunt exits Rowe's mouth and Tony just nods, unsure of what to say to him.

Rowe grabs the pen and paper from Tony and writes something else down.

'Not a Marine. Bull rider'

Tony reads it and turns back to Rowe. He hands the paper.

His voice shakes as he speaks, "What year do you think it is?"

Rowe grips the pen tightly as he writes, his pointer and middle fingers sticking out due to the bandages wrapped around them.

When Tony reads what the paper says, his heart breaks again. Because Rowe is worse off than they thought. And now, Tony begins to understand why the doctor doesn't think he'll recover.

'1990'


	5. Chapter 5

"Joined the Marines right out of Remington," McGee tells his boss, "He's been on four deployments, only been in for twelve years though."

Gibbs grabs his gun and badge and starts walking towards the elevator, ready to visit Tony and their injured Marine. Ready to relieve his agent.

"Hey, boss," McGee says, stopping Gibbs in his tracks, "Oh, um, well, Abby and I think that Tony and Rowe may know each other?" Gibbs gives him a look that says 'keep talking', "Well, they played football together for three years."

Gibbs nods, walking towards the elevator.

In the hospital, Rowe is getting slightly better. He's been freed from the respirator for an hour, and by god, it's been the best goddamn hour of his life.

Though, now he had an incredibly tight CPAP machine that dug into his face. However, it was much more comfortable than the ventilator.

He couldn't even eat on his own, and he hated it. He was hooked up to a feeding tube. A fucking feeding tube! He tried to write more but his hand would shake whenever he did. He got tired easily. Every day he was in surgery, and he spent the night starting at the moon through a large pane of glass.

The NCIS agents switched, and Rowe watched as they talk. They often turned to him. If he could've, he would've liked a smile. But he didn't get them. Instead, their faces portrayed sadness. Maybe a little bit of anger.

Tony reads his boss the list that Dr. Greene had given him and promises to copy it and give it to Jenny, Ducky, and anybody else that needs it.

"He thinks it's the 90's, boss." Tony finishes, shoving the list back in his pocket.

Gibbs glances over at him. He doesn't look good. He pats Tony on the back.

"Do you know him?"

Tony freezes, his hands shaking slightly as he glances over at Rowe.

"What do you mean?" He asks, hoping Gibbs doesn't notice the slight shake in his voice.

"You went to Remington with him. He was on the football team," Gibbs squints, "How well did you know him?"

Tony tenses and forces himself to shrug.

"Was he?"

Gibbs clearly doesn't buy it, but he sends his senior field agent off. He needs sleep, Rowe needs watching, and it's not worth getting into right now, especially not in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital.

"You?" Is the only word that comes out of Rowe's mouth, despite trying to say a full sentence.

It's low, rough and gravelly, but also barely there. It's more of a whisper than anything. The strong Southern accent catches Gibbs by surprise.

"Gibbs."

The silver-haired man takes a seat next to him, pulling the chair up to the side of the bed.

"How are you feeling?" Gibbs asks.

"High." Rowe manages.

Gibbs smiles and lets out a short chuckle, "Yeah, they got ya on everything, don't they?"

Rowe nods. His eyes scan the new agent up and down. He likes Anthony better. Nicer. Younger. Louder.

Rowe likes it when Anthony is around. He's glad that there's somebody out there that can balance out his complete silence, even if it's just going on and on about movie for an hour and a half.

"I'm gonna die?"

Gibbs shakes his head, "No."

But Rowe doesn't believe him.

And maybe he shouldn't.

Or maybe a part of him is secretly wishing that he would. Maybe if he has just landed a little different, or hit his head a little harder, he'd be laying on a cold slab in a morgue getting cut up by some NCIS agent instead of in a hospital, getting cut up by military doctors.

Was that a selfish thing to think?

Rowe didn't think so. His dad was never around, ma only cared about him on her good days. and those seemed to just get fewer and farther between. Nobody would care. Sure, maybe the bull riding community would say that they praying and thinking about him, but that would be it. At most, a few old friends would show up to his funeral. If he's parents even held one. Maybe his cows would miss him, or the horses, probably the dogs, but Rowe didn't care. They would find somebody else to take care of them and they'd forget about him too.

Eventually, Gibbs leaves the room. Rowe isn't exactly sure why. It doesn't matter anyway. A few minutes later, he sees Gibbs standing outside the door.

Great, Rowe thinks, He left just to get away from me.

Rowe blinks back tears as he sinks into the bed.

Is this his new life?

Sitting alone in some white room that smells way too clean yet somehow still reeks of death? Is that what this is all about? Has his whole life led to this moment?

I mean, he can't even watch TV because of his concussion. God knows how long he's gonna be here. Is this it?

Rowe sinks further into the bed and desperately tries to blink back tears.

Rowe tries to imagine he's a kid again, using his cow as a pillow under the night sky. Trying to imagine the sights, sounds, and smells that he grew up with. Eventually, his imagination and the consistent beeping of machines around him lulled him to sleep.

_"Two-time champion Davidson Randall Rowe, hoping for his third tonight. Davidson, how are you feeling about tonight?"_

_Davidson bites the inside of his lip before answering, "Confident."_

_The man next to him laughs, "A boy of few words. We've got some tough competition this year, are you ready to go defend your title?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"We'll let you go, good luck at there, Davidson."_

_Of course, Davidson defended his title. It was stupid to think he wouldn't. He imagined all the bets placed on him the whole time he was riding. How funny would it be, he thought, if I just let go and made people lose all their money? But he didn't, because he wanted to win, and also because he knew his parents had placed money on him. Money that they didn't - and wouldn't - have if he didn't win tonight._

_He thought about how stupid it was that his parents were sending him to military school. It meant less time on a bull. Less time earning money for them. But it also meant he spent less time at home, which is where his parent's priorities really lied._

_When he won for the third year in a row, the crowd was loud. But he could hear the 'boos' better than the cheering, though there were less of them._

_When he won, he pumped his fist once, the hint of a smile on his face._

_And that was it. It was over. He drove himself home on backroads so the cops wouldn't pull him over. And when he got home, as per usual, nobody was there to welcome him._

_'Dinner in stove - mama' was the note left on the fridge._

_Upon opening it, he saw mold. He threw it out and went to the store, buying himself orange juice, a snickers bar, and a bag of doritos._

_He was talkative that night, so he donned a coat and went out to the barn. He laid down with the cows and talked to them._

_"Maybe Remington won't be so bad," He told them, "Maybe I'll room with some really cool dude and he'll teach me about the city, and I can teach him about y'all."_

_"But I won't be around much," He says, "So I won't see y'all. I'm gonna miss ya. I really am. Who's gonna get me to sleep now?"_

_He buried himself further into the cow, leaning his head back. He let out a heavy sigh, blinking away the tears that threatened to exit his eyes._

_"It's funny," He chuckles, "I got all these people watching me up in the big cities. All these people. Even on TV, too. That's insane! Then I come home and I got... y'all."_

_He sighs heavily, chucking his mostly empty bottle of orange juice at a stack of hay on the other side of the barn._

_"I'll just join the military, get deployed, and kill myself during combat. They'll think I was shot and maybe then my parents will get something useful outta me."_

_He sighs again._

_"That's a good idea, I'm gonna do that."_

_He shuts his eyes and wakes up._


	6. Chapter 6

Everything ached.

By the end of his first week, he only seemed to be getting worse. To him, it was still 90. His memory seemed to be returning day by day. He now remembered that summer. He remembered winning for the third year in a row, going home to nothing, and talking to his cows about Remington.

He remembered a little bit after that, but he didn't remember Remington. He went to sleep, woke up, and it was still the same day. Still the day before Remington where his dad was smacking him around and his ma was just watching and laughing, not doing anything.

He still wished that the parachute failed. He didn't remember the fall, and he was pretty sure that he was glad he didn't, but he hated where he was right now. If he had just hit his head a little harder, landed a little different, maybe he'd be in a morgue getting cut up by some NCIS agent instead of in a hospital, getting cut up by military doctors.

"What are you thinking about?" Tony asks as he shuts the door behind him, his deep voice breaking the quiet medical atmosphere of the white room.

Rowe shrugs, pushing himself closer to the side of the bed that Anthony is on.

At least he could look forward to Tony coming. He promised that once the doctor cleared him to watch TV, they would watch so many movies.

Tony talked about movies a lot. It seemed to be his favorite thing. Rowe was always sad when Tony left. He liked silence, but now wasn't the time for silence. He needed somebody to talk to him, even if he didn't talk back, and Tony could go on and on for hours. Gibbs was just silent. Rarely spoke. Rowe knew that they were similar in that way, but he wished the agent would just loosen up a little. At least for now.

"I want to remember." He mutters, watching Tony as he sits down.

The agent sighs and nods.

Rowes voice has gotten much better since that first day. It's still quiet, and Tony isn't sure if it's just because Rowe is quiet or if his throat is still fucked up. Probably both.

"I know," He says softly, "I know. But you're doing your best. Just focus on getting better, okay?"

Rowe returns his gaze to the ceiling and blinks away the tears.

He feels like he's back home, laying on the cows, staring up at the night sky. Except this night sky is white and industrial and everything smells way too clean, but he understands why because it's a hospital and that's their job, but it doesn't help at all and-

He feels a hand on his own and his attention immediately turns to the NCIS agent.

Neither of them say a word. Tony rests his hand on top of Rowes. Rowe blinks back more tears, turning towards the window to hide his face from the agent.

"Did you know me?"

Tony looks over at him, but he's looking away.

"Yeah I uh," he clears his throat, "I did."

"What was I like?"

Tony lets out a soft laugh, "You were really quiet. We roomed together and it took me a month and a half to learn your first name. I only ever found out your middle name because of your bull riding."

Rowe turns his head to face Tony. He has a smile on his face but sadness in his eyes.

Yeah, Rowe thinks, He definitely knew me.

"What did I like?"

Tony lets out another soft laugh and shows off the orange juice he's holding.

"Bottle of OJ, a snickers bar, and a bag of doritos. I think that's all we ate for breakfast for a month at one point."

For the first time in forever, Tony hears Rowe laugh. And it's the exact same as it was at Remington. And goddamn did Tony miss that laugh and the smile that came with it.

"I got you into movies, but you were really, really in love with 'Don't Think Twice, It's All Right' like, weirdly in love with it."

Rowe lets out a short chuckle, "Mama used to sing it to me on her good days."

Tony nods, "You told me. You told me a lot."

"We were close?"

Tony nods, "We were close." He whispers.

And then it's Rowe's turn for his heart to break. Because if they were so close that Anthony knew about his family, knew about his mom's good and bad days, then how did he not remember him? I mean, they even roomed together! What kind of a friend just forgets that?!

"Can you sing it?"

Tony looks over at Rowe.

"The song." He elaborates.

"Oh," Tony says, "Uh, yeah. I can. I'm not a good singer, though."

Rowe shakes his head, "It don't matter none."

And Tony has to hold back a laugh, because that's such a Rowe thing to say. If Tony didn't know better, he would think that everything was fine and that Rowe still remembered everything.

The low hum of electricity, the constant beeping, and other sounds of machines acted as the instruments to Tony's singing.

It was slower than the song normally went. His voice was deep and rough.

Rowe settled into his bed more, head pointed towards Tony and eyes staring at his lips as he started to sing.

Tony's thumb ran over the back of his hand, a gently reminder that he was there, and Rowe wasn't alone.

"Well it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe."

His voice may crack, it may not be on the right note, but Rowe would be lying if he said it wasn't the best goddamn version of the song he had ever heard.

"If'n you don't know by now. And it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe."

Rowe tries to keep his eyelids open but they continue to flutter shut.

"It'll never do somehow. When your rooster crows at the break of dawn, look out your window and I'll be gone. You're the reason I'm traveling on. Don't think twice, it's all right."

He gives in and shuts his eyes, leaning his head against the wall of the bed. The big face mask doesn't bother him as he does so.

"It ain't no use in turning on your light, babe. The light I never knowed. It ain't no use in turning on your light, babe. I'm on the dark side of the road."

_He gently brushed his fingers through his hair, curling the short mess around his fingers._

_"But I wish there was somethin' you would do or say to try and make me change my mind and stay. But we never did much talkin' anyway. Don't think twice, it's alright."_

_"No it ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal. Like you never done before. It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal. I can't hear ya anymore."_

_His voice was deeper and rougher than his counterpart. A southern twang stuck to the end of the words, making the song that much more enjoyable._

_"I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' walkin' down the road. I once loved a woman, a child I am told. I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul. Don't think twice, it's alright."_

_The last few lines, Rowes favorites, were coming up._

_He sighed as he pulled the playing card out of his pocket, placing it on top of the sleeping boys wallet._

_"So long honey babe."_

"Where I'm bound, I can't tell."

_"Goodbye's too good a word, babe."_

"So I'll just say fare thee well."

_"I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind."_

"You could have done better, but I don't mind.

_Rowe stood and headed to the door as the sun began to rise through the windows._

"You just kinda wasted my precious time."

_He stood in the doorway, watching Tony as he slept. A small smile crept onto his face, and then tears threatened to fall._

_And they did._

_He shut the lights off, though it didn't do much, and began to shut the door._

When he woke, the memory wouldn't be a thought in his head. He wouldn't remember a second of it.

And when he woke, when the sunlight began to rise through the windows, Tony would be gone.

_"Don't think twice, it's alright."_


	7. Chapter 7

His apartment suddenly felt much more empty than it ever had. Much more quiet too. Maybe he was getting used to the sound of the ICU. Maybe he even kind of liked it.

Of course, he wasn't in Rowe's position. He wasn't the one that couldn't remember anything, he wasn't the one that couldn't walk, that could barely move his arms, that could barely even breathe on his own.

He could go home and sleep in his own bed and toss and turn at night.

And maybe that's why he felt empty and lonely.

He sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, dropping his head into his hands.

It didn't make him feel better.

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and for the first time in ages, he pulled out the playing card.

The handwriting on the back was faded and smudged, but Tony could still read it good enough. Who would've thought that 12 years later he still wouldn't be over if? Certainly not DiNozzo.

He stood and shoved the card back in the wallet.

He made two drinks.

Maybe he was subconsciously thinking about Rowe. Their old days together. Tony was a good bartender even then, especially for a pair of teenagers - and alcohol tastes so much better as a teen.

He doesn't know. All he knows is that he makes two drinks. But he only drinks one.

And then he does something he hasn't done in forever. And by forever, I mean forever.

8 years.

That's a long time.

He pulls the dusty guitar out of the closet near the front of his house. He hasn't even looked at this thing in months. He never needs anything out of that closet, it's the reason he put it there.

It feels foreign under his fingers as he drags it to his bedroom. He sets his drink in the ground and sits at the edge of the bed.

It's out of tune, but Tony can't remember how to tune. Again, 8 years. He doesn't even know why he thinks he can still play it. He knew one song and one song only, and though he didn't forget the lyrics, at least he actually sang it sometimes. This thing he hasn't even touched since he graduated college.

His fingers slipped and messed up, hitting different strings and making the song sound like it was played by a 3-year-old, but eventually, he got it.

It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't even remotely pretty, but then, maybe that's not what Tony was going for. Maybe he was going for nostalgia and heartbreak and the bittersweet feeling of waking up alone every morning. Maybe he was trying to break his heart again. Maybe he was trying to show himself that everything, including the tuning on the guitar and his ability to accurately play the song, had changed. And how, unless he did something about it, it would always remain that way.

And he sang the last few lines of Don't Think Twice, It's Alright.

And maybe he cried a little, but the only thing that would tell anybody was his guitar, and that wasn't speaking anytime soon.

But the night came and went, and Tony eventually fell asleep with a guitar on top of his chest and a drink in his system.

He was early to work, which was odd for him, but he wanted to solve this case. He wanted to figure out who stole the body, but most importantly he wanted to figure out who had tried to kill Rowe, and why.

Every member of that company had been or was currently being interrogated. There were Marines coming and going daily. But none of them confessed, and none of them raised any suspicion. Not even the riggers.

And yeah, maybe Tony was lost and confused. Maybe Gibbs sent him the occasional look that he never could quite read, but he knew it was something along the lines of 'I know you're lying to me and maybe even yourself'.

He hated that look. So he walked away from it.

Passing it off as 'getting information' he walked down to Abby's lab, taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

"Hey, Abbs." His voice was soft and bleak. Nothing like the Tony that NCIS knew. Nothing, even, like the Tony that Tony knew.

"You seem sad," Abby says, turning around completely to face him, "What's wrong?"

Tony sighs, taking a seat at her desk. She walks over to him, leaning against the desk in front of him.

"What isn't?"

"Talk." Abby simply tells him.

So he does.

He makes up some stupid lie about seeing his ex on the street. It's not the best lie, but he's pretty sure that Abby believes it. He tells her that he's not entirely sure why he's feeling sad about seeing this ex, they've been broken up for years upon years.

And Abby tells him that maybe he's not over this secret ex of his. Maybe she never really left his heart.

And he just nods, and his mouth is numb, and he says that maybe she's right. Maybe he's not over this secret ex of his.

"I'm always here for you, Tony," She tells him, "Always. Even if I don't understand it, or even if you don't understand it. Always."

And maybe he's thinking too much, and maybe he's a little too paranoid, but he feels like she knows. So he hugs her and leaves for the bathroom because he doesn't want her to know. He doesn't want anybody to know.

He locks himself in a stall. It's hard to not punch anything or make any noise, but he somehow doesn't. Instead, he falls onto the toilet and silently cries to himself.

He's not entirely sure how he remains so quiet, but he does. He feels like he's engaging his inner Rowe. He almost laughs.


	8. Chapter 8

"Grab your gear."

It was three words the agents had been looking forward to hearing for a week. It was a Friday night and for once they were happy that they had to do overtime.

Even Ziva, though she was stuck on Rowe duty. But she was fine with that. She wanted to see how he was doing, see if maybe this was the reason Tony was acting so different lately.

"What is it, boss?" Tony asks as he jumps into the elevator, McGee hot on his tail.

"Two dead Marines at Quantico."

"Do you think it's?"

Gibbs gives him a look and he shuts up.

The drive to Quantico is silent. It seems that most of Tony's life is silent now. He's not really sure if he likes it or not.

On one hand, silence is golden. It's powerful. Comforting, even.

But on the other, nobody deserves to live in silence. Nobody should. It's lonely, scary, and much too powerful for one man to comprehend alone.

Tony has never been sure how Rowe did it. How he just... lived in silence. How he basked in it. How he was content living a life where you only ever spoke if you had to. Rowe kept everything to himself, he had since he was born. And when he finally opened up, he broke his own heart. Tony figured that had something to do with it. Better to be alone in silence than hurting out loud, right?

The ride to the scene is quiet. There are too many questions to even begin asking. None of them know what to say. None of them want to say anything, truthfully. They've noticed Tony's strange behavior. Well, most of them. McGee, for being a federal investigator, can be quite oblivious. They wanted to question him, wanted to ask 'hey asshole, what's wrong with you? why aren't you being your normal, obnoxious self?' but of course, they couldn't do that in a professional setting, and nobody could manage to corner him. Except for Abby, but she didn't feel the need to ask that. Tony would speak up when he wanted to. Until then, he was doing his work, so all was good.

Ziva had the next best approach in getting to understand what exactly was making Tony upset.

As aforementioned, Ziva was on Rowe duty.

She had never personally liked hospitals, but she was never really in them. The only time she had somewhat enjoyed a hospital was... when she was with her dead man walking.

At least the room was somewhat large - though it was worse for Rowe, a constant reminder of all the visitors he didn't have.

As she entered the room, a nurse scurried out. She ignored her and shut the door, walking over to where the chair was pulled up on the left side of the bed. It seemed that's where Gibbs and Tony had sat.

"I am Ziva," She spoke, "I am protecting you."

Rowe acknowledges her by scanning her over as she took a seat.

His voice was still weak when he spoke, "Whens Anthony comin' back?"

Once more, the thick accent through Ziva off guard. Only momentarily, though.

Truthfully, Rowe missed Anthony. It had been 2 days since they had seen each other. Two days since he got to learn some new movie fact that he would never remember, and if he did remember it, he would never actually need to know it. Mostly, Rowe missed not sitting in silence. He wanted somebody to talk to him for hours and hours without him having to talk back. He missed having somebody sing him to sleep - through that only happened once, it was the current highlight of his hospital stay.

"He will be here tomorrow, I believe." She too had a heavy accent, but this one was not American.

Rowe couldn't quite place it. Not that he cared much, anyways. He just wanted sound.

"You and Tony are close?" She asks, leaning back into the chair.

"Sposed to be," He says, voice barely above a whisper, "We roomed together at Remington."

Ziva just nods, unsure of what question to ask next. He didn't remember much, just those first few days at Remington, so how is she supposed to figure why exactly he was bothering Tony so much?

"Did somebody try to kill me?" He asks, looking over at Ziva.

She looks up and her eyes catch the look on his face. She nods slowly.

"We believe so, yes."

Rowe blinks twice and his eyebrow twitches as he presses his lips together firmly.

"Am I a bad person?"

Ziva shakes her head, "I have found no evidence to suggest that you are."

"Then why does somebody wanna kill me?"

And maybe it's the genuine, childlike innocence that stops her. Maybe it's the part where he's laying in a hospital bed, unable to do anything on his own. Or maybe it's the part where he reminds her of her own dead man walking. Whatever it was, it made Ziva silent because she genuinely didn't know how to answer that question, and for once, she didn't want to answer it wrong.

There's a heavy tension in the air as Ziva searches her brain for an answer. Two minutes later, she finally speaks up.

"I am not sure."

It's not the answer Rowe is looking for, but he understands. She's just one of the billions of humans on the planet, just one agent, just a girl. She doesn't know everything, and sometimes people do bad things for no reason. Rowe knows that firsthand. He wonders if Ziva does too.

"Oh," Rowe says simply as he looks up at the ceiling tiles.

"Y'all'll get 'im, right?"

Ziva smiles, she can answer that one.

"Yes," She says, "I promise."

There was a good reason federal agents - or any LEOs, for that matter - never made promises. There were no guarantees in life. Even if they had a lead, the suspect could be in the air right now. They could be dead. In a different country. Space, maybe. But Ziva couldn't just not make a promise. It was too much like her dead man walking. She wouldn't let his killer get away, and she wouldn't let Rowes either. So she made a promise. Maybe it went against the rules, but she didn't care, because Tony and Gibbs were going to make a promise too, and they were going to keep it.

Tony wasn't expecting to throw up, but upon seeing the two dead bodies, he did. He wasn't sure why, it just happened.

Actually, that was a lie. He did know why. Upon seeing the bodies, one of which was the one from the first crime scene, he noticed a few things. Both were naked. That didn't matter to Tony, it was what came after. Both had their right pointer finger cut off, the markings on their body suggested torture, there were cigarettes in each of their mouths and a pack lying on the floor, and there was a small, handheld camera sitting on the counter.

Tony recognized those cigarettes, though, because they were the kind Rowe smoked - or at least, used to. Tony didn't know if he had quit yet.

There were only two things on the handheld camera. One short video, and a picture. The video was short, a few seconds. It was the parachute - Rowes parachute. And the photo was... god, it was bad.

Tony could hardly recognize Rowe as Rowe. He was younger by a few years at a least. His hair was a few inches short than it was currently, but it was the same style. Tony could still see the curls on the top of his head. The ones that he used to run his fingers through before they slept, or whenever Rowe got into one of his moods.

He was in combat, that much was obvious. They were decked head to toe in gear. Well, everybody except for Rowe. Tony couldn't see the other faces, but he saw Rowes. He saw Rowes and he hated it. He was being held back, his legs bent onto the harsh, burning rocks and sand of the Middle East. The backs of them were stepped on so he couldn't move. His hands were bound behind his back, held by the same guys that stood on his legs. A belt was in his mouth and he was biting down on it harder than he had anything before. Tony could just make out the tears in his cheeks.

He didn't know what was happening in the photo. It was mostly focused on Rowe. But it was enough to make Tony dry heave and sprint for the front door.

Bent down in the front yard, on hand on the tree, one hand on his knee, dry heaving until he eventually threw up the little food he had eaten the past few days.

A hand slapped his back, making him dry heave more. He already knew who it was, though.

"DiNozzo, what's gotten into you?"

Tony wipes his mouth and stands up, looking Gibbs in the eyes. He chuckles and shows Gibbs a toothy grin.

"Ate some bad yogurt this morning boss, knew I should've checked the label."

As he tries to walk away, a hand grips his shoulder and pulls him back.

"Is there something I should know about you and Rowe, DiNozzo?"

A thousand memories circle his mind. Is there something that Gibbs should know in those? No, not particularly. Was there something he probably wanted to know? Yes, most definitely. But Tony wouldn't tell him. He wouldn't tell anybody. And when Rowe finally remembered... well, Tony had time to worry about that later.

"No, boss, nothing."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs says. His voice is stern, but there a hint of gentleness in it. Like when you tell your dad that you got in a fight. He has to be mad at you, but he also has to make sure you're okay.

"We were friends, Gibbs," Tony tells him, mentally cursing himself out, "But that was 18 years ago."

"Then why are you so worked up about it?"

Tony sighs and shakes his head, "I don't know. I guess I just never really expected to see him again. Especially not like this."

And a look rests in Gibbs's eyes that says 'you're still lying to me and I know it' but again, Gibbs lets his agent go back inside. He just watches him and sighs loudly once he enters the house. It's not worth getting into. Not right now. Not on base with a bunch of families standing around and wondering what the hell happened, but assuming the worst. No, not while Rowe was still in the hospital, unable to do anything on his own because some asshole decided a 30 year old Marine was a good target.

Gibbs was making a promise to himself. He knew how bad they turned out before, but he didn't care. He couldn't. He made a promise. Somebody was going to end up in jail, and Gibbs wasn't entirely sure if it would be the bad guy.


	9. Chapter 9

He was fresh out of surgery yet again, but he seemed to be getting worse. He was coughing a lot and his throat stung. His breathing was getting worse and Rowe heard talk of a ventilator. God no, he hated that thing. If he was gonna die, he wanted to die peacefully - without a stupid ventilator in his throat.

Ziva was still watching over him, now wearing a mask. His immune system was shit at best, so now they had to be extra careful around him. He felt like he was a newborn and the entire care team was his overprotective mother. 'Oh wash your hands before you even look at him' or 'sorry you have to literally douse yourself in hand sanitizer every time you breathe around him, even if you're outside his door he can breathe it in too' and 'if you even think about coughing you better jump out the window before you cough in his presence'. He didn't like it, simply put. Because, unlike a newborn, he could talk and he could form and express his own opinions. But he didn't seem to have those rights right now.

It was odd. Nothing seemed askew with him - he heard the doctors talking. Nothing weird in his bloodstream, no infection in his lungs, everything seemed to be healing properly. But it seemed that Rowe was having very shitty luck recently. I mean, somebody was trying to kill him. That's movie shit. He should be starring in a movie about himself right now, not laying in an uncomfortable hospital bed reflecting on his morality and impending death.

Though, he thought, perhaps it was a nice moment. I mean, how often do you get to think of how ill-prepared your will is? Yeah, exactly, not often.

His had been written when he was eighteen. A 'just in case' that, he hoped, wouldn't be brought to fruition anytime soon. His money would go towards different farmers and ranchers in Six Sleep, and his belongings would go to Tony if he chose to keep them. Of course, he only knew this because he had received his will the night prior. He laughed when he saw that one Anthony DiNozzo was present. They must've been really close.

His memory had gotten slightly better. He was still in his first year at Remington, but was a month and a half in when Tony finally learned his middle name, Randall. Tony brought it up constantly, always asking 'why did your parents do that to you?' But Rowe thought that David was no better. 'At least Randall is original,' he told Tony, 'David is overused'. Tony did not like that standby. They argued for days, and Tony eventually agreed that it was overused when over five kids revealed they were either named David or it was their middle name.

He needed to rewrite his will, but he didn't remember much. He didn't know what deserved to change and what deserved to stay the same.

It remained untouched on the nightstand.

Tony clicked and clacked away, his eyes scanning each line of the long, long file. McGee had already read most of it, so it was Tonys turn to read the rest. It was a mind-numbing task, really. Tony had never really been much of a reader, and this file was mostly the same 'he's a great marine' over and over again.

"Anything new, Tony?" McGee asks, scrolling through his own files to read. He was learning everything he could about the two victims.

"You'll be the first to know," Tony mutters, his eyes focusing and unfocusing themselves without his permission. He sighs loudly but keeps scrolling.

McGee is surprised. Usually if Tony finds a task boring he quits. It seemed he was really invested in this one. McGee could only speculate why.

"Tell me you've got something," Gibbs says to nobody in particular as he walks to his desk.

"I haven't found a common link," McGee says, glancing up at Gibbs. Upon seeing the look on his face he instantly corrects himself, "Yet."

"Still looking, boss," Tony says, eyes locked on the screen.

Gibbs sighs and leaves them alone in a comfortable, focused silence. He has a cup of coffee in his hand that, for once, doesn't look very appealing. He's baffled, confused, unsure. His gut isn't telling him anything. Not a thing. He hates it, truly, he does. They haven't found a common link between any of the victims - and Rowe only seems to be getting worse by the day despite an agent being by his side 24/7. He's lost. He doesn't know what to do. He just hopes Abby has something for him.

The look on her face and the shake of her head suggests that she has nothing. The, "I have nothing." Spoken aloud really sealed the deal.

"But," she continues, grabbing a vial of Rowe's blood and shaking it around happily, "I'm going to start testing for more... remote poisons."

Gibbs raises an eyebrow, "Poisons?"

Abby nods happily, "Yeah! Poisons! Pretty cool, right - well, not in the 'our only living victim is being poisoned' kind of cool, but in the-" she shuts herself up when she sees his face.

"Anyway, I'm going to look for poisons that don't show up unless you are specifically looking for them. There's a lot of them that do that, Th-" she turns around but Gibbs is gone, a Caf-Pow left on the corner of the metal table used mostly for evidence.

She just smiles to herself as she picks it up and walks back to her computer. She starts typing and tries to keep the same smile on her face, but it drops quickly. She really hopes it's not what she thinks it is.

"McGee?" Tony calls out, still not taking his eyes off of the file.

"Yeah?" The probationary agent asks, his own eyes glued to his dual monitors, one file on each.

"Come here, I need you to get into something for me."

"This is about the case, right?" He asks, hesitantly getting up and walking over to his desk.

"Yes, it's about the case! Now get!" Surprisingly, he gets out of his chair and pulls McGee down into it, standing over his shoulder as he does his computer stuff.

"What is it?"

Tony shrugs, "Restricted file. Maybe he got in trouble with the Corps, I don't know." But Tony knows that's not true. He loved the Corps more than life itself. He wouldn't do anything to harm it.

"It's top-secret clearance," McGee says, typing as fast as he possibly can, "He must've really gotten into trouble."

Tony shakes his head but McGee doesn't notice, "Yeah," he says softly, "I'm sure he did."

Ten minutes later, there's a file on screen. Well, technically not a file, a transcript. A court transcript.

Rowe was involved in a top-secret court case.

McGee gets out of his seat and goes over to his own computer, scrolling to the bottoms of both. Sure enough on each of them is a restricted, top-secret court case.

"We found our link," McGee says softly, turning to DiNozzo, "We found our link!"

"I'll call Gibbs." He says, immediately grabbing his phone and dialing the number.

"Call me for what, DiNozzo?" Gibbs says, strutting into the bullpen.

"We found our link, boss," Tony says, slamming the phone down.

Gibbs immediately turns and points to the screen. The court transcript appears on it and Tony starts reading.

"During the 2003 invasion of Iraq, which took place on March 20th to May 1st, 2003." Tony paraphrases, eyes scanning the document.

"Davidson Rowe, Gary Reynolds, Tomas Sanchez brought forward the supposed rape and pillage of an Iraqi village, including assaults upon themselves," There's a thick silence in the air when Tony pauses to take a breath, nobody can believe what they're reading, "The village was inhabited by ten minors and twenty adults and elders. The claimed assailants are Colin Waters, Andrew Smith, Keith Schultz, Russell Skeen, Bryant Martin, Tyler Hammond."

Tony glances over at his counterparts. Gibbs is squeezing the coffee cup in his hand so hard that his knuckles are white yet somehow no coffee spills it. His jaw his clenched and he stares straight at the screen, eyes rereading every past word and reading every new word.

McGee is speechless, his mouth slightly agape as he reads the next words.

"Including the rape and murder of ten minors, twenty adults and elders."

Tony almost throws up as he continues reading. They all do, though some - Gibbs - contain it better than others. McGee throws up into his trash can.

It makes sense now. The picture. It was why he was being held down, why he was crying. He never cried. He was being tortured, and he as watching other, innocent people, innocent children get tortured. And he brought it to court. And he had to pay the price.

Tony grabbed his trash can and puked once more. McGee did too. They were surprised that Gibbs didn't.

Holy shit, Tony thought, Maybe it's better if Rowe never remembers any of this ever.

"Find them," Gibbs says, voice rough and gravelly, "Find them!"


	10. Chapter 10

Sitting up in bed was now one of Rowe's favorite things to do. Correction, it was one of the only things he could do. That and reread his will. He practically had that thing memorized now, even if it did have some big, fancy, lawyer words that he didn't quite understand. His money went to Six Sleep, his belongings went to Anthony. Pretty straightforward.

He sighed loudly as he brought the will back into view, setting it on the small tray in front of him. He picked his pencil up and started writing on a lined piece of paper.

"You need a lawyer to make that official," Gibbs spoke up, his gloved hand resting on the holster of his gun. He was jumpy today, something Rowe had yet to see from him. He didn't like it.

"I hate lawyers." He grumbles, crossing out a wrong word instead of erasing it.

Gibbs chuckles, "Smart man. Still at Remington?"

Rowe nods, his head finally free from the neck brace. Thank god, that thing was killing him. He hated that possibly more than the ventilator. No, scratch that, ventilator is still the worst.

"I been readin'," He says, lifting up a newspaper that's resting on the side of his bed, "Remembrin' more. Bout a year in."

"Anything worthwhile?" Gibbs asks hopefully, eyes peeling off the door for the first time all day.

"Nothin'."

Gibbs lets out a sigh and turns back to the door. Rowe resumes his writing.

Most of it stays the same. He doesn't remember enough to make big decisions, so he just assumes that most things are the same. Momma and daddy still run a farm, the same people work for them, the same people run Six Sleep, nothing has changed. Of course, he knows that some things have definitely changed, he just doesn't know what. Nor does he care. He'll be dead soon, it won't matter to him.

He signs the bottom with his signature, a scribbled mess of letters with r's that aren't quite r's, and a few uppercase letters that tower over the others. He sets the pencil down and tries to think of something else to do. There wasn't much he could. He could write letters home but he didn't know if his parents would appreciate that. They seemed to hate him when he was alive, imagine how much they would hate him if he was dying. He could write letters to all the bull riders that helped him. But what if they had died?

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He started counting the tiles. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. At seven, he spiraled into one of his coughing fits that had now seemingly become commonplace. He was arguably getting worse and nobody knew why despite the countless tests he had taken. Gibbs hoped Abby could find their answers.

He dabbed at his mouth with the back of his hand and then thrust it out towards Gibbs. He let out a short chuckle, one of the few Gibbs had heard from him, "Blood." He said simply and then returned it to his mouth.

Gibbs didn't have the same reaction that Rowe did, instead calling for whatever nurse or doctor that would enter the room first. He stood back and watched as they dabbed at his face with tissues, using their gentlest voices possible to soothe him. One of them even ran their fingers over his cheeks.

It reminded Gibbs of when Tony almost died. They were very much the same, it was no surprise that they were friends. The only real difference right now was the lack of UV lights and the lack of the plague...

Gibbs ripped his phone off his waist and called Abby. He finally had a gut feeling again. Goddamn did he miss those.

"Abbs, the plague." He said immediately, looking into the window at Rowe.

"The plague?" She asks, making sure she heard correctly.

"What Tony had," He nods, "It's the same symptoms."

"We would've seen that in his blood tests, Gibbs."

"Well figure it out!" And he hangs up.

He has a gut feeling, and his gut is never wrong. He sighs heavily, sadness flooding his features as he looks at Rowe. He really hopes that whatever this is has a suicide switch too.

When Gibbs reenters the room, a nurse is still gently petting his cheek, her thumb wiping away a single tear that fell.

Rowe was scared. Anybody could see it. He was dying and he didn't want to. This isn't how he was supposed to go out. He was supposed to die getting crushed to death by a bull after winning the world championships, or going out of glory somewhere in the middle east, or even, though it's a stretch, dying peacefully of old age down in Six Sleep. Instead, he was going out slowly and painfully, unable to even watch tv, or eat on his own.

And Gibbs never lied, he just bent the truth, but he was going to lie to this kid as best he could. He knew, somewhere deep down, what was wrong with him. But he wasn't going to tell him. He couldn't. He didn't know why either, but he assumed it was because he saw himself in Rowe. Or he saw DiNozzo in him, and DiNozzo was like a son to him, so, by attachment, Rowe is like a son to Gibbs.

Rowe falls asleep quickly after that. It's the fastest he's fallen asleep the entire time he's been there. Gibbs knows why. He's giving up.

He sighs and sits down, the lamp in the corner illuminating his chair. He reaches over to the tray that's now on the side of the bed and picks the will and lined paper up. The will and the rough draft of the new will are mostly the same. The official will is fancy, very lawyered up. Gibbs likes the new one better. It's simple and straight to the point.

'My money goes to the Dalton Warren Tackett Ranch and Rodeo. My belongings go to Anthony David DiNozzo Jr. let him do what he wants with them. I'm dead, I don't care anyway.'

His messy signature lines the bottom of the paper. Anthony David DiNozzo Jr. gets all of his belongings? How close were they? And what the hell is the Dalton Warren Tackett Ranch and Rodeo?

Gibbs shakes his head and puts all of the papers back, not bothering to look at the notes under the new will. He has something else for Abby to do.


	11. Chapter 11

Abby paced anxiously around her lab. You couldn't hear the loud opening and shutting of the doors over the much louder music that sang through the cracks of the door and into the hallways, alerting everybody that walked in that it was not a good day to visit Abby.

She's scared and blaming herself, Gibbs recognizes this the second he hears the music escaping her lab from the cracks of the door.

He turns it down once he steps inside, mostly so that he can keep his hearing, and calls for her.

"Oh Gibbs," She says sadly, tears brimming in her eyes, "It's all my fault."

Gibbs pulls her into a hug, making sure that she knows it's not her fault. Not at all. He looks over as her computer. It's just a bunch of stuff he doesn't understand, there's nothing he can make out from it.

The two stay like that for a long time because what can you say? Their only witness, who didn't really witness anything, is sitting in a hospital bed and they have virtually no leads on who exactly killed him. They have ideas, a couple of them, but they haven't pinned it to anybody specific.

"Talk to me, Abbs." He says gently, his eyes steadily trained on the Caf-Pow sitting on the edge of her desk.

"It's not good," Abby says, arms still wrapped around him, "It's Tripudicium."

Gibbs shakes his head, confusion lacing his feature. He furrows his brows at the Caf-Pow. What the hell is Trip-Tripa-Tripa-whatever-the-hell?

"It's rare, Gibbs. And illegal. Like, really illegal. It's like taking..." Abby pauses to collect her thoughts, "Y Pestis and mixing it with the most deadly poison you can find. It's slow acting. You can go days without knowing you have it. Weeks without dying. Months if the dose is low."

"Is it painful?" He asks, eyes still trained on the Caf-Pow. He rereads the two hyphenated words, the six letters, and seven characters. Caf-Pow. Caf-Pow. Caf-Pow. He admits, it has a ring to it.

"It's like the plague," She tells him, "Imagine what Tony went through but slower and much, much worse."

"Survival rates?" He knows the answer. He feels it in his gut.

"Two percent." Her voice cracks and she pulls Gibbs closer, her arms wrapping around the back of his waist.

Though he's angry - well, not angry. If looks could kill, whoever did this too Rowe would already be dead. But looks couldn't kill, poison could. And Gibbs had a job to do, and rules to follow - but he was breaking a lot of those recently.

"How?" He asks through gritted teeth.

"It gets injected in the veins, like an IV."

How the fuck could it get injected into his veins? Nobody working at that hospital had any connection to any of the guys that Rowe brought to court. None of them even knew of him before this. He had never been alone with any of them save for surgery and when an agent was just outside the door. He had never been alone period.

Except.

The ambulance.

The paramedic.

Gibbs had a gut feeling. A good one, finally. He pulled away from his forensic scientist and pointed her in the direction of the Caf-Pow. He turned her music back up on the way out.

The second he was upstairs, he was grabbing his badge and gun.

"McGee, I need you to find the paramedic responsible for transporting Rowe."

McGee didn't ask questions, getting straight to work. Ziva stood, watching her boss carefully.

"What about me?" She asks, wiping her palms on the side of her pants.

"You're with me." He says, looking towards McGee expectantly.

"Shane Knowles, boss," McGee says, holding out a piece of paper towards him, "His address."

Gibbs takes the paper and rushes towards the elevators, Ziva following directly behind him. He doesn't say a thing as the elevator doors shut.

Ziva had always had a special place in her heart for her superiors driving. It was much like hers - forward, straight to the point, and fast. But today was a different sort of fast. Gibbs was angry, and he was taking that out on the not so open road that lay ahead of him.

If Ziva wasn't nervous to how he would react, she would ask what the matter was. She had a feeling, though, and she was nervous. Ha, Ziva David being nervous? Tony would make fun of her forever if he knew.

"He's dying." Gibbs's voice cut through the silence like a hot knife through butter.

Ziva nods.

"Yes," She nods, "It is..." She struggles to find the right words, and or once it isn't because of her broken English. She doesn't know what to say. It is obvious? It is sad? It is bullshit? It is the reason we're investigating? It is the reason that Tony is sad? It is all of those and more, and there is no one word to describe the feeling that it brings.

"It is," Gibbs repeats. The car echoes with a tense, but comforting, silence after that.

They are both angry, and maybe this time they definitely should be. They're both throwing rule 10 out the window. And then kicking it to the curb. And then drowning it in the Potomac River. And then they're finishing the job in the Anacostia River. But it doesn't make them feel better. Revenge never does. But justice... justice can help. It just can't raise the dead.


	12. Chapter 12

Four cars were sat outside the small home. It was nestled in the woods, not too far from other homes, but enough land to live comfortably.

A glance was exchanged due to the amount of cars, but they were both out of the car the second it came to a harsh stop.

If the four cars in the front weren't and obvious hint to people being home, loud music and yelling was heard from a few feet from the house.

Ziva knocks loudly, the music quieting down almost instantly.

"It wasn't even that loud!" A guy says once he pulls the door open. He stops when he sees the looks on their faces, "You're not here for the noise, are you?"

"Special Agents David and Gibbs, NCIS. Is Shane Knowles here?"

"Uhh, yeah, come in. What did he do?"

Gibbs pushes past him roughly and Ziva follows. He protests behind them, trying to get their attention to figure out what exactly it is that Shane did.

"Shane," the guy yells out, "What the hell did you do? NCIS is here!"

Gibbs turns to him and gives him a glare, knowing what's going to go down next.

"Back, Ziva." He tells his agent, moving past her and into the living room just as a door slams shut.

"I've got him!" Ziva yells, throwing the door open and running out. Gibbs follows quickly, fun already drawn.

They don't want to kill him. They want to question him, make sure that he's the one that did it. Figure out why. Why the hell they would do that to a person. But every NCIS agent - every person in law enforcement - knew that criminals, especially murderers, were unpredictable. Unreasonable, too. And when it came down to it, Gibbs would do anything to protect his agents. His family. His kids. Even if that meant he didn't get the answers he wanted.

Shane is a fast runner, Ziva will give him that. It also doesn't help that he's surrounded by forest. Its funny, it seems that the runners always are.

He hops the fence and runs into the woods, Ziva hot on his tails.

She's much more graceful than he, but he knows the woods better than she - so nobody really has the upper hand.

He navigates the trees easily, spinning around a few in an attempt to not fall - which makes him stumble more than before - and jumps over fallen branches and logs.

His breathing is heavy and he's getting tired, but he knows what happens if he's caught. He runs out from the trees and into a clearing, looking around for a moment before deciding to sprint towards another large patch of trees.

In an instant, he's taken down.

Ziva practically dives to catch him, but grabs his legs and pulls him down. She's up before him, pulling out cuffs and pressing a gun to his back, whispering something in Hebrew that he can't understand, before cuffing him and pulling him up, reading his Miranda rights as quickly as she possibly can.

"You have made a mistake." She tells him, grabbing the side of his arm and shoving him towards the trees.

Ziva doesn't exactly know where she's going, but she follows her gut and the few trees she remembers - the ones with the distinct marking.

Like the one with bark cut off in the shape of a broken heart, or the one with the branch that looked like it was gonna fall at any moment.

It was a weird thing, how quickly you learn the woods. Ziva's training helped immensely, but anybody could figure out the woods quickly. Just look for the trees, paths, clearings - anything that will help you determine which way to go.

Gibbs takes him once they get back to the house. He shoves him in the back of the car, hitting his head in the roof as he does so. But Gibbs doesn't care. A headache is the least of his concern - and the man in the backseat is lucky he doesn't have more.

If the law wasn't holding Gibbs back, Shane Knowles would've been a dead man the second NCIS got his name.

He should've been a dead man.

But they had questions.

And jobs.

And the law.

And, unlike Shane Knowles, they weren't ruthless murderers. They weren't going to make a man fall out of a plane, onto a crime scene, just to steal a body and inject the man with poison, killing him slowly and painfully.

No, they weren't.

So they took him back to the Navy Yard and set him free in interrogation, telling him to sit, just like a dog handler. And, like a dog, he listened, taking a seat on the uncomfortable metal chair and waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Gibbs had something to do - somebody to get. The interrogation wouldn't start without him. It couldn't. He needed to be here, to get the answers he needed - to feel something other than sadness for once, even if it was anger.

On his way out the door, Gibbs makes a quick pit stop in his favorite forensic scientists lab.

It's brief - she doesn't even see him. He drops off a small slip of paper with a few words on it and leaves.

Abby doesn't find it until an hour later. Then, she gets to work, going over to her desk to search it up.

The Dalton Warren Tackett Ranch and Rodeo is a fun, family friendly, indoor and outdoor Rodeo and Ranch.

Abby reads, eyes scanning each word like she's never seen them before.

Why does Gibbs need to know about a Ranch and Rodeo?

Abby gasps, is he picking up bull riding?!

She clicks the 'About Dalton' button and it takes her to a new part of the site.

Dalton Warren Tackett was a professional bull rider, competing at the highest level possible. He won 1 world championship and was aiming for two before tragedy struck.

Uh oh, Abby thinks, something bad happened.

She scrolls down further, deciding to look at the pictures surrounding it later.

Dalton was constantly reaching out to different communities, trying to get kids into bull riding as safely as he could.

Dalton was born in Six Sleep, Texas, the original home of the DWT Ranch and Rodeo. See location for more information.

Isn't that where Rowe was born?

Wait, Gibbs isn't getting into bull riding, he's trying to figure something out for the case. Oh, it all makes sense now!

During his attempt at a 2nd world championship, Dalton sustained injuries during the final round. He was rushed to a nearby hospital and was declared dead upon arrival. He was 19 years old.

Oh my god, Abby thinks. Poor kid. He was just a baby, still a teenager, still a kid. A guy that had hope for his future - a guy that had a bright future ahead of him.

She scrolls up to the pictures and looks through them.

He reminds Abby of Rowe. She had never seen him in person, but had seen plenty of pictures and a ton of bull riding videos from when he was younger.

They look pretty similar too.

Curly hair chopped a little rough, a little short. Ragged scruff that was obviously not well kept. Shirts and jeans that were either well worn or brand new - no in between - cowboy boots that were the same, and cowboy hats that were all obviously well worn but clean.

The demeanor was the same too. Abby clicked on a video of him - an interview.

He was young - of course he was - but Abby assumed it was after his world championship win. He looked happy.

A tight lipped grin sat on his face as he looked around, breathing heavily out of his nose.

"It's real cool," He spoke with a heavy country accent, seemingly out of the side of his mouth, "Great place, great people, great bulls."

The reporter laughed, "You don't seem that excited."

Dalton lets out a small, quick chuckle, "No? I'm real happy. My brother goin' crazy at home, I bet."

"Your brother ride too?"

Dalton nods, "He's good. Y'all'll see 'im here in a few."

She shut the video down and opened a new tab, searching for something different.

The first result was an article, so she clicked on it.

The Dark History Of Davidson Randall Rowe.

Was the title.

A picture popped up first, one of a young Davidson, and an older couple

Davidson with his half-brother, Dalton Warren Tackett, father Edward Rowe, and mother Annabelle Rowe.

Shit.

They were related.

They both looked a lot like their father - the hair really did it.

Rowe had an arm slung around his brother, his brother doing something to him that made him laugh. His head was partly thrown back, a large smile on both of their faces.

Annabelle had a softer smile on - a tight lipped one, much like the one the other two always had on in pictures.

Their father, Edward, had no smile on. In fact, he looked to be yelling at his sons. His arm gripped his wife's side tightly. It explained the smile.

She scrolled through the article, eyes scanning and taking in every word. She didn't know what she was trying to find but she was trying to find something.

His half-brother, Dalton Warren Tackett, has gone by his birth mothers maiden name since he started bull riding and legally changed it when he turned 18.

Due to his name change, his father kicked him out of the family. The only family that came to his funeral was Davidson.

Davidson was then kicked out of the household and sent to Remington Military Academy, only returning in the summers to compete in bull riding events.

Abby quickly shuts her computer off as her door slides open, revealing a tired looking Tim.

He squint his eyes, looking at her suspiciously.

"What are you doing?" An edge of curiosity laces his words.

"N-Nothing, McGee!" Abby says, jumping up from her computer and running over to him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around so he's facing the other side of the lab.

"Abby." He warns.

"I was just..." she trails off, searching for a believable lie. She's not even sure why she's lying. I mean, does she even have to? Gibbs would tell her if it was secretive, right? Not just leave it out in a piece of paper for the whole world to see?

"Abby." His tone is harsher this time.

The two lock eyes, just staring at each other. It only takes a second for Abby to break.

"Fine," she sighs, "Gibbs told me to look up a name so I did and it turns out that the guy I was looking up is related to Rowe."

"Why was Gibbs having you look this up?"

"I don't know, McGee!"

"Abby." He warns again.

"I. Don't. Know, McGee."

McGee sighs and sets the Caf-Pow on the edge of the table. He turns on his heels and makes his way to the door, his walk sluggish and tired.

"If you find anything-"

She cuts him off, "You'll he the first to know!"

As he walks out the door, under his breath, McGee grumbles, "Everyone's saying that lately."


	13. Chapter 13

_"Can you tell me how you managed to do this?" Tony asks, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth._

_"I know people." Rowe shrugs as he tugs his shirt off. He throws it on the chair in the corner of the 15th-floor hotel room. He steps out onto the balcony, spreading his arms and taking in the fresh air._

_"Hello, Jack," Tony says, leaning against the doorframe._

_"I changed my mind."_

_Rowe rolls his eyes and turns around, immediately smiling at Tony's smile. He's so stupid. But also one of the best things to ever happen to him._

_"They said you might be up here-"_

_Rowe shushes him, stepping closer, a smirk on his face._

_"Gimme your hand," Tony reaches his hand out and Rowe grabs him by it and pulling him forwards, "Now close your eyes. Go on."_

_Tony shuts his eyes as the smile on his face grows._

_"Hold onto the railin', keep your eyes closed, don't peek." He says, moving so that Tony is now overlooking the city._

_"Ya trust me?"_

_Tony nods, "I trust you."_

_Slowly, Rowe raises his arms up. He drops his hands and lets them linger at Tony's waist, his head resting in the crook of his neck. It's a comfortable place to be, and looking down on the city, Rowe truly feels at home._

_And maybe Tony does too because they stay there, bodies pressed together, staring down at the city as the sun begins to set. And suddenly they no longer feel like stupid little 16-year-old boys that have the entirety of winter break to themselves - alone and unsupervised in a big city._

_And then they're interlocking fingers, and both their hearts are picking up, and they're not really sure whether this is them following the movie or something else, but neither of them cares because it's comfortable and it's safe._

_And then they're coming down and they're looking towards each other and oh my, this is definitely not just them following the movie._

_The kiss is hesitant, neither of them wanting to start it but both of them wanting it to happen. It's soft and slow and oh my god Tony's lips are soft, and Rowe would be lying if he said this wasn't the best kiss he's ever had._

_And then it's rough, hands wrapped around necks and digging through hair, grabbing at whatever they can. And then Rowe is shoving Tony's hands down, holding them against his chest as they slam into a wall. Tony doesn't even care about the way his head aches, or the way Rowe's hips dig into his, his belt buckle digging into the fabric of his pants._

_And then it's legs wrapped around waists and Rowe is dropping him onto the bed. Its clothes shed roughly on the ground and kisses placed everywhere but the mouth. It's the best Christmas present either of them could've asked for._

Rowe's eyes flutter open, the morning sunrise slicing through the blinds and covering his room in a soft orange glow.

Tony sits in the chair next to him, a small smile on his face as he watches Rowe wake up.

He's always been a soft sleeper. Always looked so relaxed when he was asleep, even if it was on the rough gravel of a blacktop in a summer afternoon, the stored heat of the sun burning his arms as he used them as pillows.

Meanwhile, Rowe is trying to figure out what on gods green earth that dream was. Or was it even a dream? Rowe didn't much remember his dreams, especially recently, and he sure as hell remembers this. And it all felt so... real?

"What are you thinking about?" Tony asks, noticing how he bites the inside of his bottom lip and furrows his eyebrows slightly.

Rowe's head snaps up to Tony's and oh goddamn it was not just a dream because his heart speeds up when he looks at Tony.

"We were?" Rowe asks, looking up at Tony.

Tony shrugs, "Roommates? Battle buddies?"

"More?" Rowe asks, and he notices how Tony's shoulder tense up. He nods, dropping his head and his shoulder.

"For a while. Christmas?" Rowe nods, "That day forward we were... complicated. Nobody knew but us, we kept it that way."

"How long?"

"Forever," Tony says, "Till you left."

"I-I left?" Tony nods slowly, a look of... sadness - betrayal, maybe - on his face.

"We were eighteen. You were leaving for the Marines, I was going to Ohio. We rented that same hotel room," Tony sighs sadly, "You left before I woke up. Guess it was better that way."

And Rowe is remembering being 18, standing at the doorway and silently crying, watching Tony sleep with no worries in the world. No knowledge that his whole life was about to change. And he remembers the playing card, and Tony's movie ticket. He reaches for his wallet, the old, beaten up brown leather folds open and reveals the movie ticket sitting behind his military ID. Tony pulls out his own wallet, copying Rowe's actions in taking it out.

"I-I'm sorry." He says softly, maybe even softer than Tony had ever heard. No, that's a lie, he was a completely different person around Tony.

"Don't be," Tony shakes his head, "It was twelve years ago."

Rowe reaches over and grabs Tony's hand, his thumb rubbing over his knuckles like he used to do. Tony immediately melts into it, being taken back to the good days immediately.

"I was," Rowe hesitates, "I was in love with you."

Tony drops his head, his forehead resting on the back of his hand. He glances up at Rowe, tears brimming in his eyes.

"I was in love with you too." He says softly, voice cracking at the end.

Rowe reaches over and grabs Tony's hand with his other, covering it up like a sandwich.

"Take it off," Rowe says, reaching his hand up to run his thumb over his cheek. Tony moves into it. God, he missed this.

"Rowe-" Tony shakes his head.

Rowe just shakes his back, his eyes piercing Tony's. Rowe has always held power over him, even just with a look.

"I'm dying, Tone." Tony melts at the nickname and more tears well in his eyes as he shakes his head.

"Look at me, Tony. I'm dying. Let me die comfortably." And it's almost as if he's begging. Tony has never seen or heard him like this and he doesn't want to ever again. It's horrible.

So, Tony lets Rowe slowly take his mask off. Rowe wipes his tears away, running a hand through his short hair. He leaves one hand rubbing Tony's knuckles and the other resting on his cheek, holding his chin up so that they're looking at each other.

"I missed you, Davidson."

Although Rowe had gone by Davidson until he got to the academy, he didn't let anybody call him by his first name after he arrived. It was either 'hey you' or 'Rowe'. Those were his names, along with his rank, but it was usually just Rowe. Tony, however, was the exception. He got special privileges, like calling him Davidson.

He reaches up, one hand cupping Tony's face and the other pulling his head down. It's possibly the softest Rowe has ever kissed him - or anybody, for that matter.

Tony reaches up to put a hand on the back of Rowes head, but Rowe pushes his hands down into his chest and holds them there. Tony laughs into the gentle kiss. There's the Rowe he knows.

They press their foreheads together after the kiss is done, neither of them speaking. It's hot breath on lips as Rowe runs a hand through his hair, curling the longer parts around his fingers.

"You never got over me." He states matter of factly, his voice barely a whisper.

Tony shakes his head gently, a sad smile playing at his lips, "No," He whispers, "I didn't."

"I want you to," He says softly, twisting Tony's hair around his fingers as Tony moves his head back, resting it against the bars on the side of the bed, "Find somebody nice. Get married. Have a kid. Raise 'em up all nice."

Tony shakes his head, "I won't let you die."

Rowe's laugh turns into a cough that shakes his entire body. Tony winces as he rubs his shoulders. It sounds painful.

"Not your-" He starts, a sharp cough cutting him off, "Not your call to make."

Tony shuts his eyes to hold back the tears, "Yeah," He says softly, "Maybe it's not. I'm still gonna make it, though."

"Anthony," Rowe says, voice suddenly serious. Tonys' eyes open and meet Rowes. It's the same expression he had any time that somebody tried to pity him. He hated being pitied, and Tony knew that well.

"DiNozzo." A loud voice from the doorway cuts off Rowe's next words. DiNozzo immediately jumps back, Rowe's hands falling from his face.

He stands up, "Yeah, boss?"

Gibbs just motions for him, eyes glancing over Rowe. Rowe just gives him a small smile and a quick thumbs up. He just wants Gibbs to take the mask off. He knows the news that's about to be delivered. Why even try to hide it?

Tony looks back at him as he exits the door, a worried look on his face. Rowe's laughter turns into a loud coughing fit as Tony shuts the door. He can feel the blood rise in his throat, and he grabs a tissue to dab it away with, lowering his mask so it rests on his chin. Without the extra oxygen, it's much harder to breathe. He looks around the room, a steady fear rising in his chest. It's still morning.

God, he loves mornings. He doesn't know which he likes more, mornings or nights. They're both good. Maybe that little gray hour in between.

He laughs, tossing the used tissue into the trash can next to his bed and grabbing a new one. He knows what's happening to him. His thoughts are running. He's scared. He can feel it building up in his chest. Or maybe that's just the cough.


End file.
